


Unpalatable

by tanyart



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Cheesy, Fluff, M/M, terrible kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-22
Updated: 2011-03-22
Packaged: 2017-10-17 05:15:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/173275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanyart/pseuds/tanyart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malik cooks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unpalatable

**Author's Note:**

> For Dei!

Malik was not the best cook, but he was a proficient one, the type who did not take any particular pleasure or gratification from it, because it was the sort of thing that needed to be done, Bureau leader or not. Since the loss of his arm, it had gotten a little more difficult and during those first few weeks he lost weight—whether or not his mentality at the time had affected him just as much as his physical disability, he decided not to dwell on. 

Bread and small fruits took over his diet for the most part, up until the point where he had gotten fed up with walking to the marketplace just to grab a hot meal from the vendors. Occasionally one of his assistants would make something, but it irritated Malik to have to  _ask_  in the first place. Like all the other things in his life since Solomon’s Temple, he was going to have to get used to doing them with one hand. Cooking took a lesser priority than regaining his balance on a wooden beam or sharpening his skills as a map-maker, but Malik eventually learned to kindle a small fire on his own or use his teeth to carefully break off smaller pieces of vegetables (though meat was still a puzzle to cut raw). It took a full week of restraining to urge to hurl vegetables at the wall before Malik could produce a soup that did not have nearly-whole chunks of yam or other plants, and after the first month, he could tend to the stewpot by himself.

And when he  _did_  cook, he did so in large quantities. After all, if he was going to go through the trouble of making a meal, then it was better to make enough for several instead of having to run back and forth to assuage the cries of a thousand hungry novices and traveling assassins who came to his Bureau. Even so, he was unconcerned for the niceties of different tastes; if  _they_  wanted a more flavorful broth for their soup then  _they_  could get their own salt or spices. Malik himself preferred his food to have a bit of tartness to it, though sliced limes were usually hard to come by in his line of work, even at the bureau.

Altair, surprisingly, was the easiest to cook for, not that Malik did it often, but it was noteworthy enough since he never had to worry about leaving a bowl of whatever was on hand to give to the hungry master assassin, while others would glance at him sidelong when offered a particularly lumpish stew. No one complained, of course, but it was only Altair who would not grimace at the presentation.

At first, Malik had thought that Altair still felt too guilty to criticize him for something so trivial, but that did not signify at all—Altair expressed dissatisfaction with other things, constantly, that were even less important ( _curtains_ , one time, and  _always_  there seemed to be something wrong with the set-up of cushions in the waiting chamber). Eventually, Malik realized that Altair just did not care for food. Food was a requirement, necessary to keep the body running, and Altair would most likely forgo eating if starvation wasn’t a consequence.

“Is there anything you prefer to eat?” Malik finally asked, curiosity getting the best of him. He handed a bowl over to where the other man sat, still dirty and bloodstained from his latest mission; food seemed to have precedence than cleanliness or rest at the moment.

Altair glanced up, but not without some suspicion. “Have the stars aligned in some way that has forced you to be concerned with what I like to eat?” he asked, and immediately took a spoonful of the soup Malik had secretly upturned half a pouch of chili powder into before serving it to him.

And, much to Malik’s complete fascination, Altair ate it with equal aplomb as he did with the too-sweet bread from last week, the bitter melon prior to that, and even the foul-smelling vinegar stew Malik had concocted for the very same experiment. The man did not even drink any more water than what he normally took.

“Or perhaps this will be the last time I will attempt to be nice to someone so ungrateful,” Malik said, recovering fast enough to make a jab. He knelt down, eyeing the soup, and wondered if Altair even  _noticed_  how unnaturally bright red it looked.

Though he was smiling, Altair appeared skeptical, but he considered Malik for a moment before he said, “It is not like you to fish for compliments. I like your cooking.”

And as earnest as he sounded, Malik doubted that Altair’s palate was on the same level as the rest of the world. Or even human, for that matter. 

“I am not sure if that was a compliment at all,” he said, kneeling down on the cushions.

Altair stiffened like an affronted cat, and Malik knew how much the other man disliked his words being dismissed right away, especially when they were the rare words of flattery. “What do you mean?”

“You have no sense of taste,” Malik clarified and forgot to mention that it was not necessarily a bad thing.

“When I am given food, I will eat it. It’s not as if I have a choice, when it comes down to it,” Altair said, chewing between his sentences. “Do you wish for me to complain?” And he had to think for a moment before adding, belatedly, “Because this soup  _is_  a little spicy.”

“Only a little?”

“Slightly?”

“That is half a bag of chili powder you are eating,” Malik said, nudging the now empty bowl. “You might as well call a fire ‘slightly’ warm.”

Altair frowned. Malik could see him trying to formulate an argument before he decided to take a different, more indignant route.

“You put chili in my food!” Altair accused. “Dangerous amounts of chili!”

“And you survived,” Malik scoffed, still waiting for Altair to make a run for the fountain, but the man stayed put.

“That’s beside the point!”

“ _What_  point?” Malik asked and leaned forward, but only to take the bowl from Altair’s hands and set it aside. “That I am curious to know what you like to eat? Or that it’s a requirement for the stars to be aligned for me to care?”

Now  _that_  hadn’t been easy to say at all, but before Malik could let himself to flush red, he plucked a small bag from Altair’s belt, picking away at the ties to reveal it full of bright green and yellow candied citrus peels.

“It’s only fair since you seem to know what I like,” he reasoned, and allowed for a small, crooked smile to show. 

Altair’s gaze dropped down to the bag and he regarded it almost ruefully. Taking a couple of peels between his fingers, he fed one to Malik and ate the other. The only other sign of conceding was a quick shake of his head and, finally, “I’m not very fond of salty things.”

Malik raised his brow, finding the tidbit of information more interesting than it ought to be. “From drinking too much sea water, I imagine.”

Altair snatched the bag of candied peels, knotting it closed. “I knew you would say something like that,” he said with a cross expression, and held the candy away and out of reach. 

“So it’s true?” Malik asked, not willing to pander to Altair’s childish retaliation. He was, however, moving closer until he could lean against Altair and hook his arm around the other man’s neck, drawing him in. The citrus peels could wait. “Hm, never mind. Somehow it doesn’t surprise me that you prefer insipid things, tasteless as you are.”

Altair dropped the bag over his shoulder, bringing his hand to the front of Malik’s robe. He canted his head to the side, grinning as Malik nipped at his mouth, teeth biting down hard enough to leave his lips red around the edges.

“Maybe it’s not a matter of being tasteless,” Altair mused, pulling away to press two fingers over the tiny bite marks. “My mouth has been thoroughly debauched and abused because of you, so maybe it’s  _you_  that has made me impervious to other spices.”

Malik groaned. “No. Stop saying stupid things again; you  _are_  absolutely tasteless-” he began, but Altair cut him off with an impatient, heated kiss before he could finish the rest of his sentence.

At first, Malik thought that his mind was being fanciful and horribly romantic with its metaphors, too caught up in way Altair’s tongue slid over his own; the kiss was heated, yes, but it also  _burned_  (again, not a metaphor, since Malik was no poet and did not wish to one). When his eyes started to water in a way that was not typical of their usual larking, he jerked back, sputtering, too late in remembering the chili soup.

“Tasteless, am I?” Altair asked brightly, watching as Malik darted for the fountain.

“Utterly and completely!” 

But the next time he pushed Altair into the cushions, his mouth tasted of sugary citrus—tart and sour, but everything Malik liked anyway.

So maybe he was not entirely unpalatable after all.


End file.
